At the center of the graveyard, there was a large statue that served as a beacon to funeral processions. The statue’s arm stretched toward the city, its hand holding a metal lantern that burned with an eternal flame. With weather-worn features catching the flickering light, the statue looked more like a ghostly guardian than the pioneer it once depicted. Even if anyone remained in Delden Town, it would be nearly impossible to find someone who knew the name of that pioneer. The world had long forgotten the founder of Delden Town.

The large statue weathered wind, rain, and time until it lost all means of identification. Even the name engraved at the base of the statue was lost to time as the softened ground had slowly let the statue sink inch by inch decade after decade.

In the future, scholars might try to piece together archives and cross-reference lineages to find someone with the name Delden who settled in the town. They wouldn’t find anything, because the town had never been named after the founder. A founder whose name was just as lost as the origin of the town’s name.

As Imp carefully ran down the hill from the house at the top to the graveyard halfway down, there was another shrill scream. She saw a flicker of motion, darkness and light swirled together near the far edge of the graveyard. Before she was halfway to the graveyard, a mote of silver light exploded. A weight filled the air and made Imp’s steps sluggish. The light gathered into a fog that hung overhead.

The eternal flame of the guardian statue cast orange sparks through the low silver cloud. Despite the added weight of each step, Imp kept moving. The motion she had seen, the screams she had heard, and the sparks of light were enough for her instincts to keep her moving.

There was a swirling pattern amid the silver fog, and it started to shrink as Imp grew closer. By the time she passed through the open iron gate to the graveyard, the only light left came from the statue’s lantern. The silver fog had been devoured by the darkness.

In the low light of the graveyard, Imp walked through rows of graves that held names she had once learned but forgot a lifetime ago. The priest had cared for the graves even as he added to the graveyard and expanded its boundary. Not a bit of dirt or grime had grown over the stones and Imp felt unwelcome as she moved closer to the statue at the center. Just like those funeral processions, she was drawn by the light.

Just before her feet reached the mostly sunken base of the statue, darkness enveloped the graveyard entirely. The eternal flame still burned somewhere above, but the light now only traveled a few inches instead of filling the graveyard. The weight from the silver light exploding now doubled and pressed down on Imp’s mind with a threat to force her feet into the dirt to join the dead.

A pattern in the darkness pulls Imp’s attention to the North, toward Delden Town. A mote of silver light flickered amid the overwhelming dark. Imp reached for the mote, but it slipped further away. She followed it until she stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlight. Ahead of her, pushing the boundary of the graveyard, were two translucent figures.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

To her left, the familiar face of the town’s arborist shone amber and silver. He had been an old man when Imp had run away. Even though his ghostly face looked younger now, Imp recognized him immediately. She could not recall his name, but she knew how much he cared for the nature of Delden Town.

Every tree, shrub, and hedge had been meticulously nurtured by the arborist. The arborist’s eyes held a stern gaze on the figure across from him. He was determined to protect his work, and his town, and not even death would stop him from that action.

In contrast, the figure to Imp’s right was a swirling mass of darkness and silver lights. It was like looking at a star cloaked in a shadow. Two silver eyes burned out from the hollow of the darkness and a glowing silver scythe grew out of the darkness. Compared to the arborist’s stern gaze, the silver eyes were hungry and malicious. All this figure cared to do was devour.

Imp recalled the explosion of silver that turned to fog, that then disappeared into darkness. This figure was the cause behind it. The arborist was simply the next target for the reaper-like spirit. The scythe blurred into motion. The spirit wielding it swung from right to left, like it aimed to reap a harvest of crops in one blow.

The arborist’s hands flew up. Rings of silver light pulsed around the arborist’s soul as ghostly vines rose from the ground and pushed the scythe upwards. The scythe soared over the arborist’s head. Then the blade turned downward and cut through the vines. With each severed vine, the scythe drew a scream from the arborist.

As the reaper drew the scythe back again, preparing to harvest the arborist, Imp snapped forward. The arborist was spent, his form was flickering between visible and a simple mote of light. Heavy wisps of fog poured from the arborist’s mouth as if he was leaking breath. He would not survive another harvesting swing.

Without her sword, she doubted she could do anything permanent about the swirling darkness or the silver scythe. However, as she moved forward, her eyes caught on an old grave shovel. The wooden handle was rotten, the metal blade of the shovel was bent and rusted, but it was enough.

Filling her heart with intention, Imp picked up the shovel and hurled it forward like a javelin. It sailed through the air toward the reaper. Imp only needed a moment to get to the arborist. If she could touch the mote-like soul, she knew that she could give the arborist the push he needed to safely cross over to the next life.

It was a simple charm that any adventurer delving into dungeons learned. Imp had learned it as a teenager and it was one of the most useful charms she had ever learned. As she recalled the words, the shovel struck the reaper and forced it to evaporate into smoke for a moment. It was reforming into a menacing shape, the scythe held high overhead, just as Imp reached the arborist.

The scythe blade descended in a flash. Imp’s fingers touched the arborist’s soul. Before she could utter the charm, the world vanished around her. Imp stumbled forward in the darkness, her foot catching on something, causing her to tumble into nothingness.

A moment later, her eyes snapped open to see a stone ceiling overhead. A familiar sagging nature to it let her know that she was safe, but not forever. She was back in the chapel.